The Lasting Impact of Uma Musume is Deep, as Expected

[Ave Dominus Nox]

Sleep relinquishes its hold as I rise from it, the gloom of the room confirming that dawn has yet to grace the horizon. The clock's digits mark 04:30 with uncompromising clarity, a reminder that idleness finds no refuge here. I shift onto my side, exhaling in a measured breath that steadies the body — spine, shoulders, limbs, and even the faint twitch of my tail aligning into order.

Each muscle releases in turn beneath the stretch, a controlled indulgence permitted only for an instant, before duty will summon them back into taut command.

The bunk beneath me protests in a muted creak, but I allow no distraction; silence returns, as it must, when discipline dictates the hour.

I rise with measured intent, the quiet movement betraying no hesitation, and let my gaze fall upon the upper bunk. The girl there is slight — her frame narrow, her stature modest even by human measure, markedly diminished when set against my own. Sleep softens her outline, yet the thinness of her form is plain, angles etched even in repose. Strands of black hair spill without order across the pillow, save for one that juts upward, stubbornly unyielding — a small rebellion against symmetry, as though the very notion of discipline eludes her.

For now, her breathing flows evenly, her features eased into stillness. The usual torrent of chatter and ceaseless motion — that irrepressible liveliness that unsettles as much as it amuses — lies absent. In this rare quiet, she appears almost delicate, as though stripped of the force that defines her waking hours. I permit myself a moment's regard for the silence she so rarely bestows.

I step down from the bunk and set aside a fresh set of clothes — crop top and bloomers, garments chosen not for ornament but for function. The day begins as it must: with training. Legs, arms, and core, all honed without exception. Routine is no indulgence; it is necessity. Discipline preserves, conditioning sustains, and only through such rigor does one remain equal to the demands placed upon her.

The bundle of fabric rests beneath my arm as I ease the door open. The faint click of the latch resounds far louder than it should in the hush, and I pause before moving on. Each step toward the bathroom is precise, my tread light upon the boards. To disturb another's rest would be needless, and I have no inclination toward such carelessness. I remain, after all, a guest here — afforded space, yet never entirely belonging within it.

Though that is not the whole of it. To the adults, I am no more than tolerated presence, acknowledged yet set aside. But to my roommate, and to the boy in the adjoining room, I stand as something else entirely — a figure entwined with their days since kindergarten, a constant within their small histories. That bond, more than courtesy or obligation, is what secured their willingness to aid me.

Chiba does not sit conveniently beside Tokyo, yet the train shortens the distance to a mere half hour — assuming, of course, one arrives at the station on time.

I could walk the half hour required to arrive there, but efficiency dictates a simpler course. A certain human, useful whether by choice or not, can be relied upon. He will draw out his bicycle, settle into the seat, and bear me there without complaint worth noting.

He may wish to insist that it is not generosity but reluctant obligation that guides him.

I know better.

It is the quiet steadiness of his nature, the kind of unspoken reliability that repeats itself without fail.

For me, it is convenient. For him, it may be a burden unspoken, yet I see in it a steadiness that earns my regard. It is a reliability I value, and though he would never name it kindness, I know it as such.

I lay the clothes upon the narrow counter — a cropped top and bloomers, fabric thinned with use yet suited for what matters. They are light, yielding, chosen for function rather than display. I strip away the garments worn to bed, the action smooth, ingrained by countless mornings. There is no hesitation in it, no indulgence — only the practiced efficiency of routine.

The bloomers come first. I draw them up along my legs, pausing to guide my tail through the reinforced opening at the back. The cut is pragmatic, the stitching firm, the width sufficient to grant the tail its freedom without straining the seams. Once in place, the waistband rests with even pressure across my hips, the fit secure and balanced as intended.

The crop top follows. Cotton slips across my shoulders as I settle it, the fabric close enough to remain steady through motion yet never so tight as to impede the breath or the stretch. I roll my shoulders once, let the tail flick behind me — small tests, but they confirm the fit. There is no glamour in such attire, only design serving its function. Every stitch exists to move with me, never against me, and that suffices.

The bathroom mirror caught me as I adjusted the waistband, a final tug settling the opening neatly around the base of my tail. The fabric smoothed over my hips without pinch or slack, while the crop top left the midsection bare as intended. Not attire for ornament. Attire for movement.

My eyes lingered on the reflection. The ears set atop my head, the tail swaying behind me—those alone would identify me as uma. Yet what I looked for lay beneath. At rest, the outline could seem almost gentle, the surface too smooth, deceptively soft. To a careless glance, it might even suggest fragility.

I shifted. A turn of stance, the lift of an arm, and the illusion dissolved. The bicep hardened under the skin, the stomach tightened, and the lines of the core sharpened. My thighs bore their own truth, carrying the strength carved into them by endless laps and drills, the hours of work that demanded more than comfort ever would.

A flick of my tail dismissed the doubt. I studied what looked back not with vanity, but with recognition. Every contour, every trace of definition, spoke of training layered upon training, discipline laid down day after day. The body remained smooth at a glance, but beneath that surface was steel. This was not a gift. I earned it through my blood, sweat and tears.

---

Today is not merely another sunrise. It is the opening act of my reign—the day that we get to meet our trainers of Tracen Academy, the other half of the crucible where Umamusume are polished into champions. The air itself seems to hum, charged with the blend of excitement and unease that clings to all who step onto this path. Yet for me, it is not uncertainty. It is expectation.

This is no trivial formality. Trainers and Umamusume are not thrown together by chance; we choose, and we are chosen. They seek out those in whom they see potential, and we, in turn, judge whether they are worthy of guiding us toward glory. It is a union of conviction. For others, it may be daunting. For me, it is an opportunity—one more step toward the Twinkle Series, the only stage fit for a queen.

I feel my thoughts begin to spiral, pulled too far into the depths of what lies ahead, when a voice cuts through and pulls me back to the present.

"Xina-nee!"

The warning is scarcely a breath before the collision—small arms and boundless energy crashing into me with all the determination her little frame can summon.

I brace against the impact and tilt my gaze downward, met by the impish grin of a girl who's turned mischief into a craft. Her dark brown hair, so deep it nearly mirrors midnight, sways with her movements, the single white strand across her bangs gleaming like a flourish she alone could wear. Lately she has been restless, forever seeking new ways to tame or adorn that mane, and today her chosen weapons are blue ribbons. They defy her hands, of course, but the stubborn persistence with which she threads them in gives her more charm than any polished finish ever could.

She is hopelessly endearing in moments like these. Too young still for middle school, four years behind me, and yet she brims with a tireless energy that spills into everything she does.

Her blue eyes shine like jewels, wide and brimming with mischief, and the grin curling across her face carries that feline sharpness that forever keeps me guessing—whether she plots some scheme or is simply overjoyed to be at my side. Such is Vivlos, my imouto: innocence and impishness woven together into one irrepressible little being.

A smile tugs at my lips despite myself as I reach out, fingers sinking into her unruly hair. My hand falls into a familiar cadence of headpats, each stroke sending her into peals of delighted laughter. She leans against me, her small body nearly quivering with glee. And why should she not?

To her eyes, today is the dawning of my ascent as a runner—a moment that transforms the ordinary into something radiant, a cause grand enough to celebrate with all her boundless spirit.

"You're going to start winning, Xina-nee?" Vivlos chirps, her words bubbling with unfiltered excitement.

The corner of my mouth lifts; I'm ready to answer with the certainty she expects, when another voice slips between us—cooler, edged with fatigue.
"Nee-chan's only starting her training with a trainer today, Vivi."

My gaze turns toward the source. There she stands, a year above Vivlos, her presence quiet but unmistakable. Chestnut hair cropped short, the white blaze across her bangs cutting bold and clean, set against the lighter tone of her coat. She looks touched by the sun in a way neither Vivi nor I could claim, yet for all that brightness, there is no warmth in her words, only the weary caution of one who has already measured the world differently.

This is my other imouto, Cheval Grand. Where Vivlos charms through unrestrained energy, Cheval holds her worth in the opposite manner—so intent on seeming grave and composed, so determined to present herself as the elder spirit among us. And yet, it is precisely that effort, the earnestness etched into every gesture, that renders her all the more precious. What she believes lends her dignity only deepens her adorableness in my eyes.

"Vivi's merely excited on my behalf, Chevi," I answer with deliberate patience, letting the words fall as if to soothe her. Yet I am not so merciful as to stop there. With Vivlos still latched to my side, I step forward and draw Cheval into my arms as well. Her slight frame stiffens the instant I close around her, horror flashing across her features as though my embrace were some dreadful fate. She struggles not against me, but against her own betraying heart, trapped in that space between my affection and her refusal to yield to it.

Cheval Grand writhes just enough to keep her dignity intact, her shoulders rigid, her face fixed into the mask of composure she so desperately clings to. It is obvious to me she has no true desire to flee—merely the wish to believe she endures this with lofty tolerance rather than relishing it in secret.

When at last, I ease my hold, she breathes out a weighty sigh of relief. It lasts only a heartbeat before Vivlos springs upon her, relentless, denying Cheval Grand even that moment to collect and compose herself.

"This is fantastic! I hope Xina-nee gets some super handsome trainer," Vivlos chirps, her words spilling over with boundless enthusiasm.

Unlike our imouto's clinging embrace, this earns only a groan from Cheval, heavy with exasperation. "Xina-Nee shouldn't want handsome," she mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose as though she carries the weight of the world. "Xina-nee should want an experienced trainer."

They are trying to show me they care, in their own unique ways.

"What I want, and what fate will grant, are rarely the same," I reply with a low hum, letting the truth linger in the air a moment before sweeping it aside. My hand lifts in a casual but commanding gesture. "Now then—breakfast awaits. Come, both of you."

"Nee-chan," Cheval Grand interjects, her tone sharpened by that ever-present sense of responsibility, "you might have finished your training, but neither Vivi nor I have."

Her words strike true enough; I cannot deny them. To push into training straight after a meal would indeed be folly. Yet when I glance to the clock and see the hands resting at six precisely, I cannot help the thought that their day should already be in motion. For me, dawn is the call to stride forward. For them, it still seems an hour to linger.

"Oh?" I let amusement lace my tone, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at my lips. "Then perhaps the two of you should accompany me for a second round of training. Just half an hour—what do you say?"

Vivlos all but erupts at the suggestion, her fist shooting skyward as she unleashes a cheer, eyes blazing with unrestrained fire. She shines with a vitality that borders on reckless, every inch of her vibrating with the thrill of the challenge.

Beside her, Cheval Grand collapses into the role of tragic heroine, her head bowing as though crushed by some invisible weight. Her arms hang slack, her entire frame steeped in theatrical despair, as if I had pronounced a sentence too cruel for this world.

What a drama queen.

---

My morning didn't start so much as it was violently interrupted. One moment, I was enjoying the sweet, responsibility-free void of sleep. The next, something heavy crashed onto my stomach, forcing the air from my lungs in a pathetic wheeze.

"Haaachimaaaan," a familiar, whiny voice drawled. "Make me breakfast."

Of course. It was her. The source of the disruption, draped over me as if my torso was her personal futon. My senses, dragged kicking and screaming into consciousness, were assaulted by the lingering smell of a hard workout. It clung to her like a badge of honour, and to me like a punishment.

Her red eyes were already open and sharp, a stark contrast to her lazy posture. It was a deliberate, irritating mismatch. "Haaachimaaaan," she repeated, nudging her head against my stomach with just enough force to be annoying. "Breakfast."

"Take a bath first," I managed to croak, prioritizing oxygen over diplomacy. "You stink."

A dangerous shift in the atmosphere. Her eyes narrowed. "I stink?"

"Of a workout," I clarified, words tumbling out in a rush. "An hour, at least. You were supposed to sweat. Mission accomplished." My survival instincts, at least, were functional.

She seemed to accept this, a smug look on her face. "Safe, Hachiman. Safe."

"If you crush me, who makes your breakfast?" I muttered, clinging to the flimsy shield of logic. It wouldn't save me if she ever got serious—this is the same girl who treats gym plates like modeling clay—but it was all I had.

I must have been thinking something unflattering, because her tone went cold. "You're not thinking something uncharitable about me, are you, Hachiman?"

Time for a tactical retreat. I scowled. "If you don't get off me, I'll have to air out my entire bed to get rid of that smell." A half-truth, but a useful one.

"Alright, alright," she whined, pushing herself off me with a complete disregard for my personal space. "I'll take a bath. But you can't blame me for being excited."

I managed to sit up, my spine groaning in protest. "Yes. I can."

"Hey! Today's the day you become my trainer," she announced, as if this was a great honor.

...What? The word hung in the air. Trainer? I don't remember applying for a career change.

"How did you even get Tracen to approve that?" I muttered. I definitely attended Sobu High's opening ceremony this year.

She just giggled, a light, airy sound that was completely out of place. "I spoke with the 'Emperor.' She made the arrangements. You signed the forms yourself, remember?"

Ah. The forms. Right, the paperwork from earlier before the school year ended. My brain's still catching up to the fact that I'm conscious—not exactly prime time for remembering administrative details, especially when I was so rudely awakened..

Before I could wallow in my poor life choices, she wrapped me in a hug that felt less like affection and more like a hydraulic press. "You'll need to come straight from class. I'll be waiting!" she chirped.

"What if someone scouts you before I get there?" I gasped, the question a desperate bid for air.

She just laughed again. "I already spoke with the Student Council President," she said, her eyes gleaming. "I'm getting you as my trainer, Hachiman."

That's great. Fantastic. Now if she would just let go, I could focus on the more immediate goal: breathing.

 

[Lyrista]

Sure, why not. A sfw fic needs attention too.